


On the history of Sherlock

by Caers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:20:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caers/pseuds/Caers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I started writing part of this as a scene for another fic, and it became its own work.  Just a take on Sherlock coming to terms with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the history of Sherlock

Everything Sherlock knows about human interaction on a personal scale he learned from his family: affection is a weapon, caring is not an advantage, compliments are a way to gain information, insults are a way to score points. 

It serves him well at school, when he’s send off to board. The other children quickly grow to hate him; but that’s all right, because they hate themselves more, Sherlock tells himself. And quietly, at the back of his head where even he can’t hear it, he tells himself that he hates himself more than they ever could. But that’s a thought he won’t recognise for many years yet.

At university it serves him slightly less effectively. There are people he thinks are genuinely trying to be his friend. He can’t comprehend their motives, because there is always a motive; he keeps them around for a little while, until he can get no more usable data from them, and then he drives them away. Best that they go. Nothing more than a distraction.

It isn’t until after university that he begins to wonder if, perhaps, things are different than he may have once thought. He refuses to go home. He needs to study people. He needs to see how they work, why they have the feelings they do. Are they simply stupid? Are they too insecure to entertain themselves? Or is there truly value in these things, these emotions of friendship and love? 

Father says he is wasting his talents on people, calls him a child and a woman, and says that he should come work with him (he is a research chemist, and Sherlock’s degree is also in chemistry); Sherlock feels a twinge then, rebellion and also, strangely, hurt. He hangs up the phone. 

Mummy says he is a disappointment, that his mind showed such promise, that she thought him above such common emotions, and says that he should audition at the orchestra, that she can set it up for him (she is a cellist of the finest calibre, and Sherlock is a violinist of solo standard); he throws the phone at a wall in a burst of anger and wonders if Mummy counts that as a another point for her. He plays nothing but screeching bursts of notes for the next week and ends up snapping his bow in half. He mails it to her, and adds yet another point for her in his mental tally.

Mycroft comes by the small flat and sits in an uncomfortable and wobbly chair, staring in silence at Sherlock. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t invite Sherlock to work with him, or offer to set up a job somewhere (he works for the government, but Sherlock doesn’t really know what he does and doesn’t care); Sherlock sits quietly and returns the stare, and finds it remarkably comforting. Growing up, he and Mycroft rarely interacted at all. There’s very little love or animosity between them. Mycroft leaves without saying a word. Sherlock slumps on his couch, then tips on his side and curls up in a ball and stares at the wall for hours before he finally falls asleep. 

That self hatred that’s been growing in him for most of his life begins to take on a very definite form, and Sherlock is observant enough to recognise it for what it is. He embraces it. If he knows his flaws, if he knows exactly what is distasteful about himself, it will hurt less, or not at all, when other people point it out to him.

When it becomes too much for him though, when he’s overcome with anger at everyone, at everything, Sherlock starts using his limited chemical equipment to manufacture his own brand of drugs. He buys what he can, then takes them apart and analyses them, and creates his own. A part of him takes pleasure in using this, the one thing his father values, to destroy himself.

It helps. He stops seeing all the little details, all the things that people don’t want him to see; the tiny marks that tell him they’ve had affairs, are thieves, are even worse. It stops him seeing that he is a disappointment, a wasted mind, a nothing. 

He doesn’t care that it’s killing him. He doesn’t even care that sometimes Mycroft will visit and actually talk to him. Plead with him, in his own way. Offer to help. Sherlock’s drugs, his experiments, his equipment, vanish time and again, but Sherlock always finds a way to get more.

Until he ends up in a cell, coming down from a rather wondrous high, some magnificent creation, and he hopes he wrote everything down correctly before taking it because this is one he will definitely try again. He’s alone in this cell, the two next to him occupied. He can hear them through the concrete walls. Muttering from the one to his right. It’s easy to figure out what that man has done, and that he is guilty of it, and of more, and Sherlock tells the officer so when he comes down.

DS Lestrade, as he introduces himself, sighs heavily and shakes his head. “You’re free to go,” he says to Sherlock.

“Are you going to charge him then?” Sherlock tilts his head toward the cell in question.

“No evidence,” Lestrade says with a shrug. 

“I can get it for you, in detail, if you just let me speak to him,” Sherlock offers, although he isn’t quite sure why.

Lestrade just snorts a laugh. “You’re just a junkie with someone looking out for you,” he says dismissively. “I’m not letting you near anyone in my custody. I’m taking you upstairs and releasing you because that’s what I’ve been told to do. I don’t want to do it. Kids like you...” He shakes his head.

Sherlock actually feels this officer’s obvious disappointment stab at him. Something he’d not even felt when his father had said it to him. Then he feels a flash of anger at letting it get to him. He’ll bury it under a high, later. Mycroft will have cleaned his flat out, but Sherlock can still buy something, or at least find a way to barter for it.

“I’m sure we’ll see you back in here soon enough, anyway,” Lestrade says with a shrug, and fills in the paperwork in silence.

Sherlock watches him carefully, noting the weariness, the stress on his face, the signs of chain smoking and too much caffeine. “If I weren’t a junkie, would you listen to me?” he asks in a flat tone. He doesn’t know why he cares, only that he does. And he wants to hide that, destroy it, so he’s confused that the question comes out, without his bidding. He’s spent most of his life controlling everything he says, using it to maximum efficiency; he’ll blame this on the drugs, on coming down.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow and looks over to him. “Don’t know,” he says. “We don’t consult random blokes off the street. What makes you so special?”

Sherlock shows him. He recites every detail about Lestrade that he has noticed. Makes a few leaps to cover the gaps. Smoker, overworked, aiming for a promotion, marriage in trouble -wife wants kids, he doesn’t- starting to drink more than is necessary, should probably watch that; and a dozen more things. Lestrade stares at him in open mouthed shock.

“Bloody hell,” he manages when Sherlock is done.

“I’m sure I’ve gotten some of it wrong,” Sherlock says with a wave of his hand. Best to point it out himself, not give anyone else the opportunity to do it first.

“Yeah,” Lestrade allows, eyes wide. “But not much. Really, not much at all. How did you know all that?”

“How does anyone not?” Sherlock counters with. “People are stupid, idiots, they see but they don’t observe. All of you, your tiny little brains can’t seem to handle the information. In one eyeball, out the other.” He’s wasting insults now, and shuts his mouth. Being careless. Squandering his advantage. Not that he matters to this man. He is, after all, just another junkie.

“Yeah, but at least we aren’t frying our brains with illegal drugs,” Lestrade says and hands the paperwork over to another officer.

“I could do drugs for the rest of my life and still have more usable brain cells left than any of you,” Sherlock scoffs.

“So use them, will you, and get yourself clean.” Lestrade steps away from him. “Go on then.”

Sherlock starts toward the exit, but Lestrade grabs him by the arm. 

“Look, kid. If you do ever get clean, and I mean clean because jesus mate, take a shower, would you? Well, if you kick the habit, we could use someone with your abilities.”

“Join the Met?” Sherlock yanks his arm away. “I’d rather overdose.”

As it turns out, that is his next step. He apparently had written something down wrong in the last batch of notes because he barely has enough presence of mind to call for an ambulance before he’s convulsing on the floor of his flat. 

He wakes up in a clean, non-descript room with Mycroft sat at his side, reading. 

“It’s been three days,” Mycroft says, closing the book and looking up.

Sherlock waits for the recriminations, but they never come. He finally breaks Mycroft’s gaze and stares up at the ceiling. But then, verbal communication was never Mycroft’s style. Still, there had been nothing in his body language either. A frown creases Sherlock’s forehead.

“I have not informed Mummy or Father,” Mycroft says, answering the question foremost in Sherlock’s mind. “I see no reason to bring them in to this. I’d say we could do without their particular form of understanding.”

Sherlock looks sharply at Mycroft and it occurs to him that Mycroft has had to suffer at the hands of their parents, the same Sherlock has. He wonders if Mycroft uses his silences in the way Sherlock uses drugs. 

He looks back up at the ceiling. It’s too disturbing to consider right now. It’s too much.

“Go away,” he says.

Mycroft stands and moves to the side of the bed. Places his hand over Sherlock’s, careful to avoid the IV needle. “This is a private hospital,” he says. “You are welcome to stay as long as you’d like. You are able to leave at any time. I will transport any of your things that you may need.”

“But not my chemistry set?” Sherlock asks, snide, poking at his brother for some reaction. He needs that. He needs to see the disappointment on Mycroft’s face. It’s the only real affirmation that he’s ever had.

“Anything you may need,” Mycroft repeats softly. And it’s not disappointment that Sherlock sees there; something else, something he’s never seen directed at himself before, and he doesn’t know how to catalogue it. So he strikes out in a way that puts him on firmer ground.

“I need you to stay out of my business and leave me alone,” he spits out. “I don’t need your help, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stiffens, slightly; a curious reaction, thinks Sherlock.

“You try to be so like them,” Mycroft says, and his voice remains so soft. But he looks down at his hand covering Sherlock’s. “But they are wrong, Sherlock.”

They? Oh, of course. Their parents. Such a feeble attempt to wound him. Inferring that Sherlock is wrong; not just wrong, but a poor attempt at imitating them.

“Because they saw the world for the stupid, pathetic thing it is?” Sherlock can’t keep the venom from his voice. He knows that when he says the world, he means himself. He came to that tidbit of self awareness years ago.

“Because they thought you were anything less than extraordinary,” Mycroft corrects. “And because they taught you to think that, as well.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but there are no retorts. He can only stare at Mycroft in wordless shock. He has never, not once in his life, heard anyone direct such words toward himself. And Mycroft’s voice... no deception there. He truly means the words. It rocks Sherlock to his very core, and he feels a sudden, deep sadness.

He snaps his mouth shut and turns his face away from Mycroft. Well. If he wants to hurt Sherlock, if he wants to score points on him so badly, fine. Let him have them. He is done with this conversation.

“It has never been about that,” Mycroft says, and squeezes Sherlock’s hand lightly before letting go. “I have updated your phone with my information if you need to contact me.”

“So you can pass along word to our parents of how I’m failing to live up to the family name? Well, at least they won’t be surprised to hear that.” He’s shocked, ashamed, to hear how rough his voice is, how it catches on his words. His sight blurs, tears in his eyes, and god, what is wrong with him? He closes his eyes, hoping to stop the process, but it just pushes the tears out, down his cheeks.

“I have not spoken to them in years,” Mycroft says coldly. “Nor shall I endeavour to initiate any contact with them. And I shall not be telling them anything about you. As for failing to live up to the family name? Well, I should hope you continue in that vein. Ours is not a name one should strive to imitate.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed until he hears Mycroft leave. But it isn’t until several weeks later that Sherlock understands what Mycroft’s closing statement had meant. And, sitting on his little balcony in the countryside, cold sunshine all around him, Sherlock smiles for the first time that he can remember.

It takes him another week to finally contact Mycroft. He doesn’t call, it’s too personal. He sends a text, _Need clothes, nothing fits SH_ is all he says. He hasn’t asked for anything else, not any of his things, not his chemistry equipment or his violin, still sans a bow. Books have appeared in his room, new publications, textbooks, journals, but that’s all.

Two suits arrive a few days later, and several fine shirts of different colours, along with various underclothes.

Sherlock stares at the suits with a frown. He’s never worn suits. How does Mycroft even know if these will fit? But he reaches out, drags his fingers down the fine weave of a jacket. Of course. Mycroft chose something new. Something Sherlock can’t associate with anything else. It makes something waver in Sherlock, and he pushes it aside, uncomfortable with the feeling, and strips off his ill fitting pyjamas.

The suits don’t fit perfectly. Sherlock is putting on weight again but he’s still rather too skinny, he knows this. It occurs to him that the suits are slightly too big in order to accommodate for some weight gain. How is it that his brother, who was raised as Sherlock was raised, is able to be this thoughtful?

Sherlock sits on the bed and pulls on a pair of socks -cotton, almost sinfully soft- and the shoes, which he laces up tightly around bony feet that he has always thought of as being spindly and hideously long.

He looks at himself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door and doesn’t even recognise himself. And considering how sad and disgusting a person he knows he is, he thinks that there can’t be anything better to be said.

After that Mycroft comes by periodically. Every weekend, when he can. Sometimes during the week, but only for a few minutes if that happens. He brings Sherlock his violin, and a new bow, and doesn’t blink at the rage that Sherlock can’t keep from his face. This, this instrument, a symbol of everything his mother wanted from him, everything he will never be to her.

Sherlock destroys the violin, smashes it into as many pieces as he can, grinds the broken wood under his feet, feeling only that white hot rage, everything else fading away as he vents a lifetimes of anger. And when it is spent he collapses on the floor, amidst the wreckage, and cries. He doesn’t know when Mycroft sits down next to him, or when he buries his face in Mycroft’s lap, or when his cries turn to sobs and he eventually falls asleep. But he wakes up curled around his brother, his head resting on Mycroft’s thighs, Mycroft’s hands carding gently through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock is mortified, but he’s calmed by Mycroft’s soft touch, by his soothing noises, and he lays there for a long time, drifting in and out of sleep until he finally sits up. He takes the handkerchief Mycroft offers, wipes his face free of tears, wipes his snotty nose, then goes into the bathroom to wash up. The wreck of the violin is gone when he returns.

He feels an ache at the loss of it, even though he feels somehow lighter for visiting such violence on it. He thinks he’d like to play again, one day. Make the violin sing for him, and not for a desperate need to please someone who can never be pleased.

Mycroft is standing by the bed, his suit creased and completely dishevelled in a way that Sherlock has never seen. He seems utterly unconcerned by this and it brings an unexpected and startling smile to Sherlock’s face, which Mycroft returns, along with the huff of a laugh.

“Yes, well,” Mycroft says, still smiling.

Sherlock ducks his head, embarrassed, but minus the burning shame he’s so used to feeling. Something’s changed in him, he knows that. But it’s going to take time to figure out just what. “Perhaps another time,” he offers with a slight laugh, his voice hoarse.

“There is a performance in London next week,” Mycroft says. “I’m told the violinist is superb. I had thought to suggest it, but perhaps--”

“I’d like to go,” Sherlock interrupts.

Mycroft nods. “I will make the arrangements and contact you with the details.” He walks out then, a hand resting briefly on Sherlock’s shoulder as he goes.

Sherlock stands and looks out of the glass doors at the now night sky for a long time after that.

The suit that arrives two days before the recital fits him perfectly.

When Mycroft appears at the hospital to pick him up, Sherlock is a nervous wreck, doubting his ability to function in any way outside of the hospital. But his brother simply ushers him out, and into the car. 

Within minutes of the violinist beginning, Sherlock is so entranced that nothing else exists in the world at all.

He stays at Mycroft’s that night, pacing his bedroom, hands waving in the air, tracing music that plays in his head. For the first time since he was very young, the music is so beautiful and so pure and transcendent.

He never does return to the hospital. He stays with Mycroft for a few weeks, until he declares himself unable to deal with the stuffy, silent air that hangs over the house. He knows that this is how Mycroft has learned to deal with his own issues, but Sherlock cannot cope with it. He gets twitchy. Wants to start writing compositions on the boring walls, wants to experiment on the dead bird he finds on the front porch.

Mycroft just sighs; so put upon, Sherlock thinks. “Another piece of cake?” he asks at tea, after shovelling two pieces into his mouth already. He knows Mycroft avoids overeating because he is too inclined toward a tendency to assuage his own guilt complex with food. But Sherlock is feeling especially tetchy and moody tonight.

“I have found a few flats that may suit you,” Mycroft says, laying his napkin on the table next to his plate. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you like, but I think you would like to have your own privacy more.”

“Oh thank god,” Sherlock sighs, slumping in his chair. “I’m going crazy here.” He tries to keep as much malice out of his voice as possible. He knows how much Mycroft has given up for him, how he has tried so hard to help, and a part of Sherlock resents that, but a larger part is forever grateful to him. He simply doesn’t know how to express that. He wonders if he will ever know.

“We’re due to view one of them tonight,” Mycroft continues, his voice taking on a warmer tone that Sherlock knows means Mycroft understands him. “In half an hour.”

Sherlock jumps up and shoots Mycroft a glare. “Oh, and you wait until now to tell me?” He strides out of the dining room before he loses control of the grin trying to break free.

He takes the flat on Montague Street. It isn’t an ideal location, of course not, but it is his, and the rent will be affordable if he can find something to do that won’t bore him to insanity. Until then Mycroft has agreed to pay for it, and to help him outfit the place. He wants to sleep in it immediately, but Mycroft refuses to let him until they at least have procured the most basic of necessities.

Sherlock really doesn’t even know what those things are beyond a bed, a couch, a kettle. When Mycroft is called away on sudden business, Sherlock feels a twitch of betrayal, cast aside for work yet again, until Mycroft’s PA shows up at the house. She cocks her head at him, blinks twice, turns on her heel and heads for the front door.

“Hurry up or I’ll buy everything without you there,” she calls over her shoulder.

Sherlock frowns at her back but hurries after her, barely taking time to pull on his jacket. She tells him her name is Anthea, a blatant lie. She ignores his inquiries as to her real name. She wears high heels that should be uncomfortable but she never once displays any indication that they are. Her suit is exquisite, fitted perfectly, and her hair is pulled up in a twist that doesn’t dare to let loose any stray hairs. 

She guides him through shop after shop, making jokes and comments, absolutely confident in every choice. And when Sherlock begins to feel overwhelmed she drags him into a changing room stall, sits him down, and maintains a calm silence until he feels a semblance of control begin to return. 

After that Sherlock distracts himself by pointing out observations to Anthea as they continue through the hell of department stores. That woman is grieving, that man is cheating, that woman is embezzelling, that man is planning to run off. She has three goldfish, he has two cats. Anything he can think of that keeps his mind off the sheer masses of people that he hasn’t been around in god knows how long.

Anthea keeps him out long enough that they have to stop somewhere for supper. It’s a small Chinese place, one she frequents, and Sherlock is surprised when she speaks to the waiter in Chinese. Whether it’s a dialect or bog-standard, he doesn’t know, but he is impressed all the same.

“Would you like me to teach you?” she offers, her face so open, her eyes happy. 

Sherlock can only nod. He’s never known a woman like her before. He thinks back to all the times his father called him a woman, the worst insult he could utter, and Sherlock thinks that if he could be a woman like this one, like Anthea, he cannot possibly see how that can be a bad thing. It eases something inside of him. He lets out a long sigh and sags against the back of the booth, suddenly exhausted.

Anthea kicks him lightly in the shin and grins. 

“You have to eat,” she orders. “Mycroft will stare at me if you don’t.” And she does a rather good impression of Mycroft’s disapproving stare. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and straightens up, but does as he’s told for once. 

He doesn’t see Mycroft again until the next morning, at breakfast.

“I thought I would take you by your flat,” he offers.

“Oh.” Sherlock grabs a slice of toast. “Yes,” he accepts.

When they get there he can see why Mycroft wanted to bring him by. Everything he picked out with Anthea is there, arranged neatly. Including a basic set of chemistry equipment on a table against one wall.

“I don’t know much about chemistry,” Mycroft says with a wave of his hand. “It has never been of particular interest to me. I asked for a simple set and this is what they gave me.” He taps the tip of his umbrella on one of the rugs over the floorboards. “You will let me know what else you may need.”

Sherlock turns slowly, taking everything in. He stops, his gaze lingering in one corner. At the music stand, blank staff paper stood on it. At the closed violin case next to it. He darts a glance at Mycroft before going over and opening the case. He’s hesitant when he reaches out to drag his fingers over the wood, over the strings of the violin. It’s a good instrument, somewhere in the middle regarding quality. But after what happened to the last he’s surprised that Mycroft even considered buying him another.

“We all deserve another chance,” Mycroft says softly. “The chance to try again.”

Sherlock can barely hear him over the blood rushing in his ears, all the possibilities available to him now.

“Try again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hears the door shut, but he’s already lifting the violin and settling it on his shoulder.

_Try again,_ he repeats in his head, and raises the bow.

\--

Which isn’t to say that everything is fine now.

Sherlock looks at people and sometimes he is still overwhelmed by the influx of data. He hates their boring, treacle slow minds, their stupid, pointless lives (his own stupid, pointless life). But sometimes he can even look at himself in the mirror without feeling like smashing it to pieces when he does. Some days he doesn’t even hate who he sees there.

He still can’t figure out what to do with his life but Mycroft tells him he has time, he’s young still. He won’t be a chemist, won’t follow after his father; that thought makes him want to destroy every piece of chemistry equipment in his flat, and he would do it but he honestly does love his experiments too much to follow through.

He won’t be a musician outside of his home, won’t follow after his mother; he’s exorcised that demon and he won’t let it haunt his love of music anymore.

Mycroft still has not suggested that Sherlock follow him into government, whatever it is he actually does. Sherlock doesn’t believe, not for one moment, Mycroft’s dismissive ‘just a minor position’ bullshit. He wonders if he’s not been asked because he’s not considered capable, not good enough. But it’s something of a relief. That he’s left to find his own way. That Mycrfot isn’t trying to force him into somewhere he doesn’t belong.

“If you would like to come work for me I would be glad to have you,” Mycroft says the next time he visits. He’s just sat down after making himself and Sherlock tea, a plate of biscuits between them.

“God, no,” Sherlock refuses, still taken aback sometimes that his brother can read everything about him from just a glance. Does he also see how hateful Sherlock is, even to himself?

“Yours is a mind that should not be wasted. It will not be wasted, no matter what you choose to do. If you are ever at a loose end I am sure I can find something to occupy you.” He sips his tea. “The offer will remain open. I shall not mention it again.”

Sherlock frowns into his tea and reaches for a biscuit.

The next day Anthea arrives with a folder, laptop, and mobile phone, all for him. She makes tea whilst Sherlock reads the folder, an overview of the situation where files have been copied, sensitive files, and removed.

“He’d like you to locate the man in question and who he is delivering the files to.” She sets the tea down on the coffee table. 

“I have a hard time believing he can’t do that himself. Or that he doesn’t have someone in his employ who can. I’m sure you could figure this out,” Sherlock replies and drops the folder on the floor with a sigh.

“Yes, but we all have other things to be going on with.”

Sherlock knows that Mycroft has sent this his way just so he’ll have something to do. He cycles through emotions; anger at being pressed into it, even though he’s under no obligation; worry that he isn’t up to the task; irritation that he’s actually considering it.

“Will you look into it?” Anthea asks. “It requires some running about, I imagine. And your brother does so hate legwork.”

Sherlock issues forth another sigh. He’s well aware he owes his brother a great deal, and that gnaws at him. He also knows he’ll never be called on this debt, and that this is just another favour to Sherlock. But still. Sherlock’s eyes flick to the file and he sips his tea. 

“Oh fine,” he relents. “Yes, I’ll look into it.”

“Lovely.” Anthea relaxes back into the chair. Her eyes catch on the violin, on the staff paper half covered by Sherlock’s notations. “Oh, he didn’t tell me you played.”

Sherlock frowns at her. He’d half thought Mycroft had simply told her to acquire an appropriate instrument for him. He’s learning that Mycroft relies on Anthea a great deal in many areas. But her comment indicates that Mycroft had purchased the musical things himself. Unusual.

“Yes. Since I was young,” Sherlock says. His hands are gripping the mug hard and he forces himself to ease his grip before he shatters it. So, still not a subject he’s comfortable with.

“Would you play something for me?” She asks it with such a hopeful smile that Sherlock’s first instinct, to throw her out of the flat for even suggesting it, dies before it finds a voice. 

“All right,” he finds himself agreeing. He sets the mug aside and goes over to the corner, taking out the violin. “Any requests?”

“Whatever you’d like,” she allows, and closes her eyes.

Sherlock’s investigation lands him in hospital. Mycroft arrives, visibly upset and pale with worry, Anthea silent at his side.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to do this,” he says, clutching the handle of his umbrella.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock returns, then winces as his split lip cracks open. He licks at the cut, tastes the blood, concentrating on cataloguing the taste of it. “It was the most fun I’ve had. Mycroft, it was brilliant. Also, I’ve found your buyer.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him. “Have you indeed?”

Not long after Mycroft leaves, Sherlock has another visitor. He vaguely recognises him and it takes almost a full minute to place him.

“DS Lestrade,” he says. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

The detective raises an eyebrow at him because he hasn’t introduced himself yet. Then he narrows his eyes at Sherlock, as if he’s also trying to figure out where he knows him from. “Right,” he finally says, nodding. “The junkie who told me my life story.”

“Not a junkie anymore,” Sherlock points out.

“Not a DS anymore,” Lestrade returns. “Inspector now, thank you very much.”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock sneers, resorting to old habits. He hasn’t met someone from that time of his life in over a year. It’s disconcerting, and embarrassing. 

“Same to you.” Lestrade taps his notebook with his pen. “So, you got roughed up. Why were you in that part of the city if you’re clean, Mr Holmes?”

“Looking for someone.”

“Your dealer?”

Sherlock wants to throw something at him. An entirely childish gesture that he restrains himself from indulging. “I’m clean,” he repeats, more a snarl than a statement. It was a hard won battle, and he won’t tolerate some ridiculous, stupid police officer challenging it.

“Who were you looking for?”

“I was asked to find a certain person. Once I ascertained their location I started home, only to be set upon. Luckily the attack was caught on the CCTV, which was actually being observed at the time.” It’s fudging the story slightly, but Sherlock sees no reason why he should give the details of a government investigation, after all.

“Yes, we have the footage,” Lestrade says. “So, d’you have a description of your assailants, then?”

Sherlock does, a rather detailed one, as well as a fair idea of where to find them.

“I see you’re still able to do that thing, with the details,” Lestrade says at the end of it.

“I see you’re still able to breathe,” Sherlock says. He’s being petty now, but he doesn’t know how else to be. He has no reference for how to behave. He only has old patterns and habits, so those are the ones he reverts to.

“That’s me, still breathing,” Lestrade says, and tucks the notebook away. “I’ll get some people on this, Mr Holmes. We’ll have them in custody, soon enough.”

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and leans back on the pillows behind him. He’s tired, god, and he hurts so much but he refuses to have any sort of narcotic pain killer. Not yet. It’s still too soon. Rather the pain than that. He hears Lestrade leave, and only once he’s alone does he wrap his arms around his chest, as if that can ease his pain, and stops fighting the pain and the tears it brings.

He checks himself out the next day, unable to tolerate the pitying stares from the nurses any longer.

 

Not surprisingly, Mycroft doesn’t bring him any more incidents to investigate. By the time his body is healed, Sherlock is going mad from boredom. He’s found a taste for the excitement of investigating, found something he’s good at, and something he likes.

“Give me another one,” he says during one of Mycroft’s visits, when they’ve both been silent for long minutes. 

“No,” Mycroft says simply.

“Why not?” Sherlock leans forward in his chair, glaring.

“I am not going to put my little brother in a situation where he can be hurt.”

“Again,” Sherlock tacks on. He slumps back in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m so bored, Mycroft. At least it was something to do! Something I’m good at. I won’t repeat that mistake, I can assure you.”

“Next time you’ll make a different mistake?” Mycroft arches an eyebrow at him, but Sherlock can see he’s getting through.

“Oh, we all make mistakes in order to learn,” Sherlock says. “Why, yesterday I was trying to determine the location of a soil sample...”

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft sighs, and Sherlock can see he’s won his case. “I’ll send Anthea around if anything suitable comes up. In the meantime, why don’t you approach that Inspector you spoke with in the hospital? He seemed impressed by you. I’m sure you could convince him to let you have a cold case or two.”

That’s a possibility Sherlock hadn’t considered and he steeples his hands in front of his face, tuning out the sound of Mycroft leaving. 

‘That Inspector’ turns him away with a laugh. As he does the second time. The third time he gets a bit irritated and has him thrown out of the Yard. The fourth time, Sherlock catches him at a crime scene and Lestrade threatens to have him arrested until Sherlock takes a long glance over the scene, deduces the events that occurred, and who the culprit is likely to be.

“I can’t be expected to be any more accurate than a general overview,” Sherlock says when Lestrade throws him into the back of a police car until he can verify Sherlock’s alibi. “I only had a few seconds to look.”

Lestrade releases him and orders him from the scene with the threat to stay away or he’ll have him on charges, no matter who is looking out for him.

Sherlock goes home and sulks on the couch, glaring at the wall. By the next morning he’s back to analysing soil samples; and that’s of course when DI Lestrade decides to visit him for a change.

“Looked you up,” he says when Sherlock stops yelling at the door to shut up and actually lets his visitor in. He’s shocked at who it is but he doesn’t let on.

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock goes back to his table, protective glasses still on.

“Knew you’d been a junkie, didn’t I? That was, what, almost two years ago now. Nothing really out of the ordinary, for all that. Been arrested a couple of times. Posh family, intelligent, degree in chemistry.”

Sherlock lets the silence drag on. Lestrade comes closer, peers over at the experiment. “What’s that, then?”

“I am compiling a catalogue of as many of the individual components of different soil samples from across London,” Sherlock answers. He shakes a tube, examines the way the soil begins to separate. “Is there a purpose to your visit today or are you simply determined to interrupt the only useful contribution I am being allowed to make?”

To his credit Lestrade doesn’t question the usefulness of being able to identify a location in London based solely on the contents of soil. 

“Seems I’ve been given permission to consult you in a limited capacity,” Lestrade says. “At my discretion. Don’t know how you got that, but there you are.”

Sherlock turns in his chair and narrows his eyes at the Inspector. “Indeed,” he says. He’s impressed. For Mycroft to have arranged that was something of a feat. “If you require confirmation of my abilities, perhaps some type of juvenile reassurance, I am willing to work on some of your cold cases. Only the more interesting ones.” He turns back to the experiment. 

“You’ll work on whatever I bloody well give you,” Lestrade replies. “Or you can piss off, and I don’t care who got you access.”

Sherlock’s back stiffens and he readies a barrage of insults, words so cutting he’s sure he could drive this Inspector back to the bottle for good. But he holds his tongue and shrugs. “For now,” he allows. “You may go.”

“I may... Whatever.” Lestrade slams the door on his way out.

But when Sherlock shows up at the NSY building the next day he is given a pass and shown to an empty office without any fuss.

This, he thinks, is a start.

\--

Lestrade’s DS, Dimmock, always listens very intently to everything Sherlock says, and then dismisses him outright. Sherlock hates him. Luckily he is promoted to DI within a year of Sherlock making his acquaintance, and Lestrade gains a newly promoted DS Donovan. She’s rude, abrasive, and outspoken. Sherlock likes her a great deal more. If she only showed some sign of intelligence he may even be able to tolerate her presence for more than a few minutes.

She says what she’s thinking, and she sees Sherlock for what he is; she calls him ‘freak’ and ‘psychopath’ like they’re his names. In a way, he supposes they are. He is a freak, and maybe he is a psychopath as well. He isn’t right in the head, he knows that. And he isn’t a good person either. He’s at the crime scenes, haunting Scotland Yard, simply because he is bored. Not out of kindness.

Sherlock responds with his own cutting remarks. God knows she gives him plenty of ammunition. Lestrade tries mediating at the beginning, then just leaves them to it. He’s not a babysitter, he insists. He isn’t here to teach them to grow up.

When Sherlock meets Anderson, the new forensic scientist with the Yard, he takes one look at him -serial adulterer, which means liar, which means Sherlock cannot trust him with a piece of paper let alone evidence- and never does say anything to him that isn’t designed to hurt. When Anderson takes up with Donovan, Sherlock loses any sort of respect he’d had for her.

And that hurts, more than he will ever admit to. Apart from Lestrade, she’s really the closest thing he’s ever had to a friend. Not that Lestrade is a friend. He’s constantly on the verge of throwing Sherlock in a cell, if not outright murdering him.

Still, Sherlock finds he has a place now. He has an income, and he has his experiments, and his ever growing mental map of London. He’s trained his mind to record and analyse everything, and he deletes what is unnecessary (although some things he cannot seem to delete, no matter how hard he tries).

It doesn’t change that he looks in the mirror as little as possible so he won’t see the cracks in his face that show him who is really beneath. It doesn’t change that he knows he will never be accepted, never be a friend, never be anything more to anyone than a tool (barring Mycroft, but Mycroft has always been in a category of his own). 

He settles into his life. 

And of course, that is when it changes again.

Setting fire to his flat once could be smoothed over. It had destroyed the majority of his furniture in the lounge, but he’d managed to replace most of it with second hand things. The second time he does it -which is fascinating, really, he’d never have expected that chemical reaction- he gets evicted.

Not a big deal, really. An old acquaintance, someone he’d helped on a trip to Florida, is renting rooms. If he can find a flat mate he’d be able to afford it easily. He mentions it to Mike Stamford, hoping to garner some interest from one of his students. It would be interesting to live with a medical student. Textbooks to read, maybe easier access to surgeries or even bodies. Molly is getting a little fed up with him at the moment, and she isn’t quite as easy anymore to charm into letting him have body parts to experiment on. 

Instead, Mike brings back an old friend of his, and Sherlock can’t help but want to show off for him. There’s something about this John Watson, something that shines out from him, that Sherlock wants to sit and watch for hours. He deduces John’s recent history, dazzles him with facts and with his ability to discern them, and finds himself puzzled when John just glares at him. He makes a quick exit, embarrassed, giving his name and the address of the flat.

To his surprise, John shows up. To Sherlock’s continuing surprise, John agress to accompany him to a crime scene, and sticks around, and at the end of it all he kills a man to protect someone he barely knows. For a few brief, shining hours, Sherlock feels as though he has a friend.

He really has no idea how he’s supposed to parse this, how he should categorise Doctor John Watson. Why? Why would he do that? Why would he care? Well, it won’t much matter. Once he gets to know Sherlock he won’t care, and he’ll leave. It’s inevitable. Until then Sherlock is going to study John and try to find out everything he possibly can.

The compliments from John don’t stop though. No matter how much of an arse Sherlock is (and he’s aware that he can be a complete arse much of the time). No matter how much of his personality John is subjected to, he always has a ‘fantastic’ or a ‘brilliant’ at the ready when Sherlock explains his deductions. Sherlock finds he is explaining himself more often because of it. He wants to hear the way John seems to be in awe of his ability. For the first time in his life someone beside Mycroft is actively praising him, willingly enjoying his company, not grudgingly doing so like everyone else.

John doesn’t move out. And Sherlock finds that if he did, he might actually miss him.

“Look at this fucking mess. Oi, Sherlock, you twat,” John calls from the kitchen. He’s just home from work, gone to fix himself a cuppa. Obviously seen the remains of Sherlock’s latest experiment.

Sherlock ignores him from were he’s laid out on the couch. He’ll clean it up eventually. Just not right now.

“Sherlock!” John calls again, and stomps into the lounge. “You look like a bloody statue on a tomb,” he mutters, and Sherlock can’t stop a faint smile.

“Such compliments,” he murmurs.

“Ah, so you can hear me!” John says triumphantly, and throws a wet dish towel on Sherlock’s face. “Go clean up that bloody mess so I can make a cuppa.”

Compliments to gain information, Sherlock’s brain supplies, one of the old rules of his youth, and it makes him suddenly furious. That John would do that, that Sherlock would associate that with John.

He grabs the cloth and stands, flings it back at John.

“Clean it up yourself,” he snarls and storms into his bedroom, slams the door so hard the pictures hung on his walls shake.

Is this what it’s like? What a friend is like? Is John a friend? John had told Sebastian they were colleagues, after all, correcting Sherlock. Ah, he’d been scoring points. Of course.

The realisation eases the tightness in Sherlock’ chest, and it brings with it sharp pain that cuts him so deeply he can barely breathe. But it’s all right, because he can place John now. He knows where he stands. John is just like everyone else (but nothing like them at all). He knows how to deal with John now.

And then Moriarty happens. A man who doesn’t prevaricate. Who plays the game Sherlock grew up playing. And he plays it so well that Sherlock wants to kill him, wants to absolutely destroy him for making that pain a part of his life again.

And when Sherlock turns around in the pool to see John, everything shatters even as it falls into place. Oh. Of course. John who used compliments for information, who praised him to gain his trust, who corrected him in front of everyone to shatter him and score points.

And then the world wrenches to the side yet again, because John is a prisoner wrapped in a bomb, and not the enemy at all, and that, that makes Sherlock so scared that he nearly faints there, on the spot. 

He doesn’t. He stares at John, at his pale face and rapidly blinking eyes -Morse code, ah yes- and nods once to signal that he gets the message. 

When Sherlock finally rips the vest off John and flings it away he finds that he doesn’t care about why John compliments him, why he corrects him. He only cares that John stays, stays forever or leaves now and never returns (oh god, please don’t leave, please don’t ever leave).

And then when they both stand at the precipice, multiple sniper scopes trained on them, Sherlock realises what Moriarty means. He closes his eyes for just a moment, fixing in his mind the image of John, and vows that he will never let any one get away with harming him.

He pulls the trigger.

John crashes into him and they both go into the pool. Clinging to John beneath the heaving surface, trying to dodge debris, Sherlock thinks it will be worth it, dying now, knowing he has had one friend.

He wakes up in a hospital room.

Not for the first time, likely not for the last time. 

He feels the faint ache of injuries, which means that whatever medication he’s been on is wearing off. There’s a moment of panic when he doesn’t know where John is, until he looks around and sees him sleeping in a bed less than an arms length away.

Alive. Thank god. He doesn’t know what he would have done if John were dead. It brings an entirely unexpected surge of relief to see him there. And he can’t handle it, so he looks away.

He sees Mycroft standing at the doorway to the room.

“He’s fine,” Mycroft says, walking in. He stands on the other side of Sherlock’s bed, so he isn’t separating the two men. 

Entirely too perceptive. Sherlock wants him to go away and leave him alone with John, but also to not leave him alone. He hates the drugs the doctors have obviously pumped into him. How did he ever think they were a good thing? They cloud his mind, confuse him, make him feel everything so acutely now.

“Bruising, minor abrasions.” Mycroft keeps his voice soft so he doesn’t wake John. “You have a few bruised ribs, in addition to the same. He tackled you into the pool.”

“He saved our lives.”

Mycroft smiles down at him. “He saved your life,” he corrects. “He would have gladly given his own if it had meant you would live.”

“He, he tried to do that even before the explosion,” Sherlock admits. “Moriarty?”

“Dead. Oh yes, he’s quite dead. I’m sure of it,” Mycroft states. 

“Why did you let them give me these drugs?” Sherlock asks after a silence. “I hate them. You know I would have refused them.”

“You needed to rest,” Mycroft says with a shrug. “I have no doubt you’ll be fine. You see now that you don’t want them.”

“Craving doesn’t equate wanting, Mycroft. Addiction doesn’t care. You made sure I learned that lesson.”

“And don’t pretend you don’t appreciate it.”

Sherlock frowns at his brother but doesn’t push the argument. He looks over at John. “I’ve never felt like this before,” he says softly. “I don’t. I’m not sure I even know what I feel, Mycroft. Tell me what this is.”

Mycroft sighs and sits in the chair next to the bed. He sets his umbrella aside and crosses his legs. “Anthea came to me as my assistant several years ago. She’d been with me for over a year by the time you first met her. I quickly came to rely on her. A feeling I was unused to experiencing. She became a friend. And I didn’t realise it for quite some time. I’d not had a friend until then, Sherlock. She taught me a great deal.”

Mycroft pauses, and Sherlock knows enough to hold his tongue. That Mycroft is talking of this, that he’s confiding these things in Sherlock, is unprecedented. He’s trying to impart something of his experiences, the difficulties he has faced in overcoming their upbringing. Sherlock’s rarely heard him speak of that at all.

“I love her, Sherlock. Perhaps not in the way most other people love, and perhaps not in a way that other people can even recognise. But I find that my life would be less without her. She understands me, even when I do not understand myself. She is my friend; not despite my faults, but because of all that I am. I could never ask for more from a person. It took me a long time to see that, to stop being suspicious of everything she does and says. But she stayed. And because she stayed, I came to see.”

Sherlock looks over at John again. “I don’t know why he stays, Mycroft. I don’t know what he sees in me that would make him stay.”

“Because you still only see yourself through the eyes of our parents. Try looking at yourself through my eyes, Sherlock, and how you are my little brother, whom I love. Try looking at yourself through John’s eyes, as the only person he has been able to truly be himself with. And if you still do not know, simply ask him. I assure you he will tell you truthfully, and you will find that you see yourself in a different light.”

“Is Anthea your lover?” Sherlock asks, looking back at Mycroft, deflecting the attention away from himself again.

Mycroft smiles softly. “Yes,” he answers. “Perhaps one day we will even marry. What do you think, big wedding, invite everyone we know?”

“I thought you said big wedding,” Sherlock says, not knowing what else to say. He’s astounded, honestly. He’d though they were unlovable, the both of them, destroyed utterly. But to know that someone loves Mycroft anyway... Is it possible then that someone can love him? Someone other than his brother?

Mycroft stands, still smiling. “I see your point.” He rests his hand on Sherlock’s forehead for a moment. “If you have need of me, do not hesitate.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, just lets his gaze linger on John’s sleeping face. 

Once home, Sherlock refuses all of John’s attempts to get him to take his pain medication. At first the arguments distract him from the pain; they quickly turn to grate on his nerves. 

“Why do you care?” he shouts, losing his patience entirely. His ribs hurt, his muscles ache. He’d go to bed but it hurts more to lay down than to be up and about. 

John blinks at him, shocked into silence. “You’re my friend, and you’re in pain,” he finally says. “And I’m a doctor, Sherlock. If you’re worried about relapsing...”

It’s the closest he’s come to saying anything about Sherlock’s past with drugs. It makes Sherlock sneer and turn away from him.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” John continues. His voice isn’t soft and kind. It’s pragmatic, and a bit harsh. “Sherlock, you need to rest or it’ll take you twice as long to heal.”

“Your friend,” Sherlock snaps. “I’m not your friend, John. I don’t have friends. No one wants to be friends with someone like me.”

Silence. A long silence. Sherlock pulls his robe tight around his body like a shield.

“You know, when I first met you, when Mike and I were talking, I said ‘Who’d want me for a flat mate?’ and he said, ‘You’re not the first person to say that to me today’. And look at us now, Sherlock. Yeah we have our differences. But we get on as flat mates, don’t we? I think we do. So if no one wants you as a friend, why can’t it be like that? Maybe I want to be your friend because of all the reasons no one else wants to. Ever consider that?”

And, no. No, he never had.

He’s always been told he’s too rude, observant, callous; even John has, at times, decried his apparent lack of caring for those involved in his cases. And yet, yes. He is still here, still his assistant, still his blogger. He has killed for Sherlock, and has tried to give his life for him.

“No,” Sherlock admits softly, taking a risk with it. Maybe with John... Maybe this is one person who won’t ridicule him for all the things he is.

That brings a faint smile to his lips. No, John will ridicule him. More precise, John will tease him, mercilessly, and make fun of him. But without malice. God, let just one person be this to him, please.

“I thought you were the genius detective,” John points out. “Look, you’re a mad bastard, Sherlock, and I like you. I like running around London with you, and writing up your cases, and even being your bloody assistant. You’re fucking brilliant, and you make me feel useful.”

“Even when I’m calling you an idiot?” Sherlock dares, feeling tentatively for the boundaries.

John laughs at that. “Okay, maybe not then. Half the time I don’t care any more, and half the time it makes me want to punch you, but the point is that I don’t. Because you’re my friend. And I’m your friend. You just, need to observe that.”

Sherlock stiffens and spins around, ready to call John to task for questioning his observational skills, but winces at the pain in his side instead.

“Right, that’s enough,” John says, putting on what Sherlock has always though of as his doctor face. “You’re going to take your medicine and have a cup of tea and go to bed. Don’t you dare argue. If you’re concerned, I’ll keep your medications with me at all times, and I’ll watch you carefully. All right?”

Sherlock looks away, then nods. If he can’t trust his friend to look out for him, he can’t trust anyone. And maybe it’s time he started learning how to trust someone.

\--

Sherlock’s father dies. 

It’s the first communication he’s had from his mother in years. He knows Mycroft hasn’t communicated with their parents in just as long.

Surprisingly, Mycroft announces that he will be attending the funeral. He does this with a hesitant look at Sherlock. 

He wants me to come with him. Sherlock knows this to be true in an instant. “Will Anthea be accompanying us?” he asks, and sees the flicker of relief on his brother’s face. 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “John?”

Sherlock asks later, over supper. John stares at him with wide eyes. Sherlock has never discussed his family, beyond Mycroft, but John is an astute man, and he knows he has deduced a great deal about Sherlock’ s early life. 

“Yes, of course,” John agrees. “If you want me to come, I’ll come.”

Sherlock stares at him for long moments, trying fight back the feeling of relief. How he clings to this man for comfort. It makes him feel so weak, so needy. But he can’t deny that it exists, and he takes whatever John will give him.

The service is packed with colleagues and so-called friends of their family. At the grave side Sherlock stands apart from his family, next to Mycroft, and they are flanked by Anthea and John, who stand as if they are sentinels protecting them.

It’s all Sherlock can do not to let loose with a torrent of invective, not to tell everyone here just what sort of father the man really was. He doesn’t care about his research, his discoveries. He’s glad to see the body lowered into the ground, glad that he is finally dead.

His mother throws a bouquet of flowers on the coffin. Sherlock steps up next to her and spits on the shiny surface, drawing horrified gasps from everyone. Mycroft comes to his side and rests a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder in a show of support, and does the same thing. 

“May he burn in hell, if ever there is one,” Mycroft invokes, his voice radiating all the rage and the pain that Sherlock is feeling.

“You only ever disappointed him,” their mother says to them, her face blank of all emotion.

Must not display weakness, Sherlock reminds himself. One must remain collected at all times.

“Good,” he says to her. “If there is one way to gauge how successful I am in my life it is by the depths of the disappointment you and Father have always felt.”

He feels John’s presence at his side then, a hand on his arm.

“Sherlock? Let’s go,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes -when Sherlock glances down at them- fixed on Sherlock’s mother and as hard and cold as they are when defending Sherlock from mad criminals.

“Yes, run off with your little lap dog,” Sherlock’s mother says, waving a dismissive hand. “You and your brother always have known how to bend, and bed, the most weak willed creatures that crawl along our gutters.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John gets there first. 

“Your son kept me out of the gutter, sure,” John says easily. “By showing me that there’s something worth doing. And someone worth living for. Without him, without his friendship, god knows where I’d be. Certainly not a doctor any more. Probably dead. He’s the greatest mind, the greatest man, that I have ever known, and will ever know. And to be taken to bed by a man like Sherlock is to know the greatest compliment and passion that exists.” He smiles up at Sherlock’s dumbfounded face and Sherlock can see that he’s said these things to strike at his mother, but also that they are true.

“Well then, she’s one name we can gladly strike off the guest list to the wedding,” Anthea says to Mycroft. “I am so glad she won’t be around to ruin things.”

“Mother,” Mycroft says flatly, tilting his head at her before walking away with Anthea.

“Come on,” John says, tugging on Sherlock’s arm. “I don’t want to waste my time listening to this bitter old cow ramble on when I could be at home kissing you.”

Sherlock grins at his mother’s utterly stunned expression. “Why wait until we’re at home?” he says, and bends, presses his lips to John’s. 

He’s not really sure what he expects; for John to play along a little while, yes. But not to have hands slipped into his hair, not to have John take control of the kiss and open Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue and all-but devour him like this, in front of his mother and everyone.

“Why wait, indeed,” John says when he finally pulls back, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. He’s smiling kindly, and there is such affection in his eyes that it makes Sherlock catch his breath.

He licks over his lips, feels John take his hand.

“Come on,” John repeats. “Mycroft and Anthea are waiting.”

Anthea is grinning, standing next to the car with Mycroft. “You boys,” she says affectionately and gets in.

Sherlock sits next to John, conflicting feelings rioting inside him. Oh, that joy when John kissed him, a realisation of what it is he wants, finally knowing what it is that John means to him, finally knowing what it is to love someone; but god, also knowing that whilst John does hold a deep affection for him (obvious), he’d only kissed him to embarrass Mummy, to show her up, and to wound her in front of all the people she knows. 

Mycroft huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “For god’s sake, Sherlock,” he sighs, just before John grabs Sherlock by the lapels of his jacket and hauls him closer to his side and presses a long kiss to his lips. 

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you like that for months,” John says against his mouth, grinning like he is completely unable to stop. “So quit worrying about it, all right? I love you too, you daft git.”

“You...?” Sherlock stares at him, eyes flicking from John’s mouth to his eyes, then in a sudden fit of self consciousness, to Mycroft and Anthea, who are beaming at him. But, why?

“Because I do,” John answers, and Sherlock realises he must have spoken the question aloud. “Jesus, I thought your brother was going to brain me at one point because he’d had enough of listening to me whine about it.”

“It was a desperate situation,” Mycroft confirms. “The poor man has been pining after you, Sherlock.”

“How did I not see this?” Sherlock turns his gaze back to John. “I’m, I’m just a...” He trails off and shakes his head. Just a disappointment, he finishes in his head. Pathetic, lost, rude, nothing. 

“You’re everything,” John breathes, and pulls him forward again, presses a kiss to his forehead. “Never just, Sherlock. Always everything.”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and reaches up, wraps his hands around John’s arms. “John,” he gasps, unable to say anything else. What he means is: I love you, I cannot live without you, you make me better, you show me how I can make myself better.

“I know,” John says softly, pressing another kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “I know, Sherlock.”

“A double wedding,” Anthea sighs, and it startles a laugh out of Sherlock.

“I don’t think...” he begins, only to be cut off by another kiss. John, eyes shining with laughter, with a ‘yes’. It’s always been there, Sherlock realises, whenever he’s asked John anything. He’d just never known what it was before. “A double wedding,” he confirms, grinning.

\--

It doesn’t fix everything. Nothing does. But It’s a start, and Sherlock is learning that those are the best parts.

_Try again,_ he tells himself. And this time he can’t wait to do so.


End file.
